


don't be afraid (to get carried away)

by thespideyboy



Series: my spideypool collection [16]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but not at all, it's cute believe me, it's just sweet, the orange juice is the macguffin, they're in love and they love it, this is kind of about orange juice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:48:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22874248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespideyboy/pseuds/thespideyboy
Summary: Wade ducks his head, leans forward until the bridge of his nose is nudging against the line of Peter's jaw. When he speaks, his lips move against Peter’s throat, gentle and rough and achingly familiar. “S’all semantics, c’mon; Two months, two years, two millennia- feels like I've had you forever, honey."//the one where wade iswaytoo particular about juice
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: my spideypool collection [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289819
Comments: 5
Kudos: 122





	don't be afraid (to get carried away)

“ _Pulp?”_ Wade sneers, swiping a jug of orange juice from the bottom shelf and straightening abruptly. He holds it at an arm’s length, fingers clenched around its neck as though he's actually trying to suffocate it, “I know I’m not perfect, but- _really,_ Peter? You buy your orange juice with _pulp_?”

The fridge is wide open, light spilling out onto the tile, flooding the kitchenette, violating the previous trance of darkness with a warm yellow glow and a flush of cool air. Around the corner, the bedroom is a siren, door ajar and promising warmth and rest, a nipping reminder that it’s too late in the evening to be awake, too early in the morning to be asleep. 

“All I wanted was a little bit of a juice-boost. Get some electrolytes up in here, and- and I’m forced to find out that you prefer your orange juice with _bits?”_ He throws his hands up, the juice sloshing around pointedly, “This is kind of a deal-breaker, Webs. And by kind of, I mean totally _._ _To-ta-lly_. I feel _betrayed_. _”_

Peter watches with bright eyes, the left side of his mouth twitching. “S’what was on sale, _”_ He gestures to himself, then, leaning back against the imitation-granite countertop, “I’m maybe just a little bit of a _starving grad-student,_ remember?”

“ _That,_ my dearest,” Wade looks like he’s about to chuck the jug through the window, “Is _no excuse.”_ Instead, he tosses it back into the fridge, a little too harshly to be unceremonious, and saunters over to Peter. A pout that’s more theatrics than disappointment is pinned to his cheeks. “You're with me now, have been for a _long time,_ now, and-”

“Barely!” Peter wedges in, heat sprawling in his chest, up the column of his neck, colouring the tips of his ears when Wade nears, all but _melting_ into the proximity, the strong arms that come to cage him against the counter. “We only _just_ started dating, what- two months ago? Three?”

Wade ducks his head, leans forward a couple of inches or so until the bridge of his nose is nudging against the line of Peter's jaw. When he speaks, his lips move against Peter’s throat, gentle and rough and achingly familiar. “S’all semantics, c’mon; Two months, two years, two millennia- feels like I've had you forever, _honeybee-”_

“Honeybee? That’s a new one.”

“It’s cute, yeah?” Wade hums, nosing closer, “ _Honeybee,_ my sweet and soft little _honeybee._ Came to me when you were changing int’a your suit last night. Captures your whole schtick, dontch’a think? _”_

“Bees aren’t- they’re not arachnids, you know that, right?”

The fridge is still open. Absently, Peter thinks that if he could afford a newer fridge, then maybe it would have beeped by now, alerting them that the food inside is going to _spoil_ if they keep fooling around. As it is, the fridge stays silent; Peter and Wade stay intertwined, their heat mingling, legs tangling. 

Wade doesn’t answer his question. “What was I saying? _Ah-_ I don’t care _how_ long you’ve been my _rainbow hummingbird-”_

_“_ I don’t even know what that _means._ ” Peter laughs, his limbs pliant against Wade’s insistent closeness. There’s no true bite in his voice, his words hardly a nibble as Wade continues on, his eyelids drifting shut, palms spread over Peter’s back, his shoulders, his biceps. 

“Anything you want is _yours,_ no more of this ‘settling for less’ bullshit, you hear me? You’re all mine, _bay-bee_ , and I’m _filthy rich._ Like, _german-chocolate-cake-with-black-cocoa-ganache_ rich. No need to think about saving _fifteen cents_ on the inferior type’a orange juice anymore, got it?”

Peter is quiet, for a moment, because this isn’t the first time that Wade’s been upfront about their contrasting financial situations. Part of him wants to deliver yet another lecture on _blood money and the ethics behind using it for slightly-better orange juice amongst other mundane products;_ part of him wants to kiss Wade silly, because he’s well aware that Wade only and always wants what’s best for him, even if his methods are a little _unconventional._

Ultimately, Peter’s response comes easily. He ducks down, catches Wade’s lips with his own, biting gently, sighing when hands capture his hips, anchor him in place. 

Some time passes like this, the dark kitchen static and silent, the open fridge and the murmured glow it offers fading into non-existence. Peter draws back, just enough to feather the tip of his nose against Wade’s, their lips hanging only a centimeter or two apart. He’s grinning, his eyes barely open, when he breaks the soundlessness. 

“It was fifty cents,” He breathes.

Wade raises his brow, muscles moving where hair would have otherwise been, “Sorry?”

“I saved fifty cents, not fifteen.” Peter tilts his chin, finds the ridge of Wade’s cupid’s bow with his mouth, “Can’t believe you’d think so _little_ of me.” He bites down, tightens his grip on Wade’s shoulders. “S’like you don’t even _know_ me.”

They’re on the ground, suddenly, Wade poised over Peter’s body, straddling Peter’s thighs, his fingers carefully wound around Peter’s wrists, pinning them down. “Shut up,” Wade rumbles, his tenor low and wanton and _overwhelming,_ and then he’s kissing Peter again, the swell of their chests colliding, his knees trapping Peter’s hips, pressing in as close as his large body will allow. 

Peter obliges easily, doesn’t bother speaking until his shirt rides up and exposes his overheated skin to the chilled tile, until his neck is sore and the back of his head knocks back. 

“Bed?” He asks, more of a gasp than anything, and Wade doesn’t even pretend to argue, relieving his hold and hoisting Peter up. Arms wrap around his neck, legs tighten around his waist, and even though Peter is perfectly capable of holding himself up like this, Wade supports him anyways, one hand grabbing at his thigh, the other flat against his lower back. 

The fall into bed is clumsy, knees knocking and chests bumping, the frenetic energy building between them blooming within the confines of the bedroom, intensely warm and impossibly tangible. 

The fridge is still open, and stays that way until the next morning. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> come say hey! [@thespideyboy](https://thespideyboy.tumblr.com) !


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